The nightmare had been jagged and visceral—a suffocating tangle of vines and cold, stone walls—but the reality of the morning was far more mundane, if equally irritating. Albert blinked, his vision slowly sharpening to reveal a thick, furry obstacle pressed firmly against his face. It was the tail of Tom, his cat, who had decided that the most comfortable place to spend the night was precisely over Albert's nose.
"You are a menace, you know that?" Albert muttered, shoving the tail away and sitting up with a groan.
He stared at the fat cat, who merely yawned, stretched with an elegance that defied his bulk, and curled back into a ball of indifference. The air in the dormitory was biting. Outside, the world had shifted; a thin, crisp layer of snow clung to the windowpanes, obscuring the castle grounds in a veil of grey mist.
Winter hadn't just arrived; it had settled in with a vengeance.
He climbed out of bed, the floorboards cold beneath his feet, and pushed the window open. A gust of freezing wind rushed in, instantly waking the rest of the room.
"Close it, you lunatic!" Fred's voice cracked from beneath a pile of blankets. "It's Halloween, not the Arctic Circle!"
Albert ignored him, watching the snowflakes spiral downward. Halloween. The date hit him with the weight of a premonition. He knew the choreography of this day by heart—the troll, the chaos, the desperate forging of a bond between three students who were currently, in his estimation, completely unprepared for the world. He felt like an observer watching a stage play, knowing exactly when the lighting rig would fall. He didn't want to be the one to catch it. He didn't want to be the hero. Being the ghost in the machine was safer, and far more profitable.
As he got dressed, the banter in the room resumed, the threat of the cold forgotten in favor of the upcoming feast.
"What are the prizes for the card tournament tonight?" Lee Jordan asked, throwing a sock at George. "If I'm risking my dignity, I want something better than a handful of chocolate frogs."
"Ten Galleons, or maybe an enchanted bookmark," Albert said, though his mind was still miles away.
"Boring," Fred countered. "We need high stakes. How about a limited-edition set of Master Wizard cards?"
"Done," Albert said, a small, genuine smile finally reaching his lips. "If you can win them, they're yours."
Breakfast in the Great Hall was an exercise in overindulgence—honey-roasted pumpkin, hot pumpkin pancakes, and the kind of warmth that only magic and a massive stone hearth could provide. The mood was infectious, even with the impending doom of the troll incident looming. But the atmosphere soured quickly. A letter arrived for Wood, his face draining of color as he read it. The Acrobat Trio—the very people who were supposed to provide the night's spectacle—had been waylaid. A run-in with a dark curse had landed two of them in St. Mungo's.
"It's over," Fred said, dropping his fork.
"Completely, utterly over," George echoed.
"A catastrophe of epic proportions," Lee added.
Albert, unfazed, popped a piece of roasted pumpkin into his mouth. "I have a feeling this feast isn't going to be the lighthearted affair we were hoping for."
Nearly Headless Nick drifted by, his translucent head tilted at a precarious angle. He was talking about the Headless Hunt, a group of ghosts with a morbid affinity for separating their own heads from their shoulders. The group was fascinated, but Albert could only watch the clock. He knew the script.
Potions class was a brutal reminder of reality. Snape was in an exceptionally foul mood, his eyes sliding over the Gryffindors like a razor. He spent the entire two hours making Fred, George, and Lee look like absolute amateurs, docking points with a glee that bordered on the sadistic.
As they stormed out of the dungeons, cursing the 'Old Bat,' Albert leaned in. "Save your energy. That man is going to have a very bad day before the sun sets."
"Bad luck?" Fred asked, his eyes widening. "You're promising blood?"
"I'm promising something interesting," Albert said, his eyes glinting. He remembered the lore, the subtle nudges of fate. Snape wouldn't get out of this day unscathed.
The afternoon dissolved into a marathon of library work. Albert wasn't studying; he was observing. He watched the way the light hit the dust motes, the way the students moved in patterns dictated by the castle's architecture. By the time they left, the sun was already bleeding out of the sky, casting long, bruised shadows across the stone floors.
Seven o'clock. The Great Hall was a sea of orange and gold. Thousands of live bats fluttered near the ceiling, their wings brushing against the pumpkin lanterns, while the smell of roasting meats filled the air. When the ghosts emerged, the hall turned into a shimmering, blue-hued dream. The Headless Hunt arrived with a sound like shattering glass and the thunder of phantom warhorses, their heads flying through the air like morbid bowling balls.
"That's horrifying," Shanna whispered, pushing her plate away as a knight's skull skittered across the table.
"It's just theater," Albert said, though he didn't touch his food.
Then, the doors burst open.
Professor Quirrell stumbled in, his turban askew, his face a mask of primal, shaking terror. He looked like a man who had seen the abyss and had the abyss scream back. He collapsed into the center of the hall, his voice a broken, high-pitched gasp. "Troll… in the dungeons… thought you ought to know."
The hall erupted. Panic was a contagious, physical thing. Students scrambled over chairs, screams bounced off the high vaulted ceilings, and the sense of order disintegrated.
Albert remained seated. He took a slow, deliberate bite of his steak, watching the chaos unfold with the detached interest of a scientist looking through a microscope.
"You're eating?" Shanna gasped, looking at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. "There's a troll loose in the castle!"
"Panic is a wasted calorie," Albert said calmly, swallowing. "Dumbledore is here. McGonagall is here. If they can't handle a troll, then we're all doomed anyway. I'd rather face my end with a full stomach."
Fred, George, and Lee, caught in the wake of his calm, slowly sank back into their chairs. They were the only four students in the entire hall who weren't running. They watched as the teachers mobilized, their wands drawn, their expressions grim.
"It's almost impressive, isn't it?" Lee whispered, his eyes wide. "How fast it all falls apart."
Professor McGonagall stormed toward them, her robes billowing like a storm front. "What are you doing, Mr. Anderson? Are you deaf? Escort your friends to the common room at once!"
Albert stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Of course, Professor. We were just finishing our meal. It would have been a shame to let the steak go to waste."
The twins and Lee stifled their laughter as they followed him, the chaos echoing behind them. They walked through the now-empty corridors, the silence of the castle feeling heavier than the noise of the feast. They knew what was happening—or at least, they thought they did. They knew about the boy, the girl, the bathroom, and the troll.